


Nightmare Ficlet

by lucifers_left_earlobe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:09:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifers_left_earlobe/pseuds/lucifers_left_earlobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request for Castiel having his first nightmare and Dean comforting him. I got a little carried away with the nature of the nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare Ficlet

Castiel has been witness to Dean Winchester’s death over one hundred times and tonight, he’s reliving each one.

Initially, Castiel had thought it was a normal ‘dream’. Of course, Dean and Sam had debriefed him on mundane human happenings, and dreams had been involved in that discussion. Dean suggested that dreams were a sort of insightfulness into oneself, a way of figuring out courses of action through figuring out what would best suit a person’s personality.

Sam had suggested that dreams give indication of desire, or what people lust after.

Castiel finds himself pinned against the hot, leather seat of the Impala, fully disrobed, but warmed by the heat of another body pressing into his own. Tentatively, Castiel allow his eyelids to flutter open to the sparkling, emerald eyes of Dean Winchester.

At first, Castiel had backpedaled; he was stricken by Dean’s sudden boldness, his recanting of his whole ‘let’s wait until you’re more adjusted to humanity’ sentiment. Dean’s head tilts to the right in question, observing him with a concern that vaguely recalls memories of a pure white home, a sarcastic sibling or another.

He doesn’t have much time to reflect on the though, however, because warm fingers press under his chin and draw his face flush against Dean’s. A warm pressure brushes against his lips and moves in rhythmic waves, keeping an almost too perfect pace. Castiel leans into the kiss, though, despite the warning signs.

There is a strange sensation hanging between his legs; Sam had warned him about this as well, after a lot of prying and embarrassed coughs from Dean. It’s what happens when you feel arousal, Sam had said, or when you’re interested in the person you’re with. What had been most interesting about the conversation was that immediately after Sam had finished informing him upon this fact Dean rushed out of the room, his neck turning a faint shade of light pink.

Castiel is drawn away from his thoughts once more when friction meets his arousal, knocking against it in such a way that his spine arches skywards, craving for more.

“More, Dean,” he finds himself panting, his hands skirting up and down the sides of his hunter. And Dean complies.

Tiny, puckered goose bumps coat his skin in a layer of heat as one of Dean’s hands moves from where it’s poised on a side of his head and burns its way down Castiel’s torso. It continues, on and on, and splays itself over the delicate hairs Castiel knows adorn the base of his dick.

Castiel squirms, desperate for that friction that’s so close, he can feel it pooling at the bottom of his stomach. His hips thrust upwards of their own volition, but despite his movement, he’s met without friction; he’s met without a reciprocated movement.

He peels open his eyes to find that he’s squeezed them shut again. What he sees… what he sees terrifies him, and Castiel doesn’t hold any recollections of ever experiencing fear. Instead of seeing Dean propped up above him, like he’s expected, Castiel sees a copy. He sees one of Naomi’s abominations.

This Dean has been killed in a particularly brutal fashion.

His eyes have been completely seared from his skull, a single rivulet of blood running from the corners down his face from each empty socket. Castiel forces himself to examine the rest of the corpses face, ignoring the wave of nausea swiftly traveling up his esophagus. His eyes land on a hole just behind the body’s temple.

It had to be the fatal wound, and a slowly administered one going by the radius of the puncture. Castiel can identify that the murder was by the hands of an angel, but the remaining afterglow surrounding the wound suggests that it was by _his_ hand. That Castiel, who’d never be able to kill his best friend, not for real, was the one who’d taken this body’s last breath.

“Yeah, Cas. This is your fault,” the corpse mutters in that signature drawl.

“I-I didn’t mean it, Dean. I couldn’t do this.”

“It’s okay, I forgive you.”

And then the thing bends down to once more capture Castiel’s lips in his own. Castiel squirms, trying to escape such a horrible fate, but finds himself immobilized. Cold, dead, slimy lips press against his in a revolting ‘kiss’. Castiel tries, he tries with all he’s got, but that only makes it worse.

Just before Castiel wakes from his horror, the body decomposes over him, coating him in a gruesome layer of his best friend’s insides.

He wakes with a shout and with tears streaming down his cheeks. He turns to his left and, much to his relief, finds Dean snoring into the pillow. Castiel doesn’t want to go back to sleep; hell, he doesn’t _ever_ want to have a dream like that again. But he doesn’t want to remain awake and scared all by himself.

Tentatively, Castiel lays a hand onto Dean’s shoulder and squeezes. The man shifts a bit before his voice, his _actual_ gravelly Kansas-accented voice, murmurs, “Go back to sleep, Cas.”

“Please.”

Castiel is pretty sure that Dean hears the pleading in his voice, as he immediately shoves himself into seating position against the headboard. His eyes focus on signature points of Castiel’s face; the tears streaming from his probably reddened eyes, the barely concealed tremor in his hands, the shiver coursing through Castiel’s body despite the heat of their proximity.

Warm arms wrap around Castiel’s body and tug him against a solid chest. He lets himself relax into Dean, shifting so he sits in the V Dean’s bowlegs form, regardless of his better efforts. Dean peppers kisses along the top of his head, noses into his matted hair.

“What’s the matter?”

“You and Sam said that dreams were supposed to be pleasant. That was torture, at the very least.”

He rotates in Dean’s arms so they face each other, nose to nose. Dean’s eyes are fully alert, the green in them not at all artificial, nor too emerald. They’re just… Dean’s green. The Dream Dean didn’t have freckles; in contrast, this Dean does. Castiel’s eyes scour Dean’s face and body for any imperfections, any indication that this Dean in just another figment of his obviously twisted imagination.

Dean’s arms flex minutely to draw Castiel in that extra inch, to press their lips together in a sloppy, albeit nice peck. Dean releases the tension after a beat, but leaves their bodies pressed against each other the comfortable way they are.

“It was a nightmare, Cas,” Dean whispers against his cheek. “They show you what you never want to see.”

Castiel nods, understanding why it would be subject to having the definition of having something ‘one never wants to see’. His eyes focus back onto Dean’s and he feels a small smile break out upon his lips, feels the tears stop streaming out of his eyes at the realization that the dream was but a fiction. Dean returns the smile, though there is a hesitation in his eyes.

“What was your nightmare?” Dean asks, but quickly backtracks with, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Castiel leans further into Dean’s body, letting his head collapse over Dean’s shoulder.

“Don’t die, Dean. I don’t think I can live without you.”

Castiel feels Dean’s arms tighten around him, drawing him closer so. His hands contract and scratch at the skin on Castiel’s back in a painful and worrisome massage. After a moment, his hands stop their odd pattern and stroke soothing, discordant patterns into the now sensitive skin.

“You, too, Cas. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, a sex scene in a nightmare is kind of stupid, I suppose, but decomposing bodies freak me the hell out, and during sex... yikes. Anyway, this is a strange take on nightmares, but it's stemmed mostly from my own fears.


End file.
